


(But Baby) It's Cold Outside

by Thranduil_is_a_bitchking



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015), The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, I'm really sorry lads, Illya has feelings, M/M, Napoleon has feelings, Or is there?, THRUSH, The family I made up for Napoleon, These two being cuties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-07 19:38:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8813656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thranduil_is_a_bitchking/pseuds/Thranduil_is_a_bitchking
Summary: "In all seriousness, Illya thought, they really needed to stop ending up in cold, dark situations."While tracking THRUSH across Alaska, our favourite spies run into some trouble.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hello you beautiful people!
> 
> I promise I haven't died, I've just been moving into uni, in another country. Well, uni's kinda the same thing as death isn't it xD
> 
> Anyways, I've been super busy, but here's a Napollya cutie just to get me back into the swing of things! 
> 
> Please check out my other work, (shameless self-promotion, I know), and as always,  
> Enjoy!

In all seriousness, Illya thought, they really needed to stop ending up in cold, dark situations. Napoleon shifted beside him, and Illya thought that maybe he could hear his teeth chattering. Trapped as they were in this dark, wet pit, the grate above them let in the cold air and the snow from outside. Cool light trickled in in bluish hues, and Illya's eyes had long since adjusted to the darkness. 

They'd been tracking THRUSH agents in Alaska, mid winter, through some dense forest. Illya had fallen in first, and had landed very awkwardly, hitting a wall of water like it was concrete. Napoleon had unceremoniously landed on top of him, and Illya had heard the loud crack Napoleon's wrist had made. He'd cried out, and had swore, and Illya had been waiting for him to move so that he could pull himself out of the water, and remove whatever it was that he'd landed on out of his abdomen. 

In the pale afternoon light, Napoleon had managed to manoeuvre himself onto his knees and off of Illya, who had sat up and had finally, properly, felt the rusted iron rod that protruded from the floor. Napoleon had swore, again, had helped to lift Illya off of the flaking, blood soaked rod. He'd winced, and Illya had sacrificed his jacket to staunch the flow of blood. It was painful, but they'd both live.

The hole they'd fallen into opened up into a network of tunnels. With no other way out, they were left with very few options. Napoleon had led them, torch held out in front of him. They walked and walked, the air getting colder and the tunnels getting darker. The water had started at their ankles and had risen to their knees. Napoleon's torch had flickered and died, and they had realised that they were very, very lost. They'd followed the remaining light that filtered in, and the sound of running water. 

A door was what they found, brick walls either side. It lay ajar, and pale sunlight filtered through. 

Napoleon pushed the door open with shaking, blue tinged fingers. The heavy metal screamed at them, and closed noisily behind them. Illya turned and pulled on it. It was locked. Surrounded by brick walls, cold water nipped at their ankles. A ladder hung halfway up, black and rusting. 

They were trapped.

Now, the steady flow of water echoed around them, the noise loud, rhythmic and hard to tune out. Illya had hoped they would not be here long enough for the water to become a problem. He had been wrong. Napoleon, who was less used to the cold, was who Illya feared for. 

The American was pressed against his side in the dark, cylindrical space, muscles shaking with fatigue, pain and cold. He cradled his broken wrist close to his chest, his fingertips just protruding out of the dark water that surrounded them. His breath came in short, sharp gasps, and Illya knew his shaking was doing nothing for the pain he was in. His good hand was sandwiched between Illya's beneath the cold water, pressing down on the wound in the Russian's stomach until both of them became too tired to continue. His knees were drawn tightly up to his chest, in an effort to conserve body heat. Illya, who was taller than Napoleon, found his legs doing the same out of necessity. 

The bricked, curved wall of the pit was cold and almost slimy against his shoulder, the icy surfaces digging cold talons into everything they touched. The floor, covered with freezing water, was hard beneath them. The water would steadily rise, Illya knew.

His head dropped back to hit the brick with a dull thunk. He could see nothing but grey shapes and the shadows of Napoleon's cheekbones, the dimmed brightness of his blue eyes. He sighed. The grate was at least twenty feet above them. The door they'd come through was refusing to open. Unless someone came with a rope, they had no hope of escape. 

Napoleon shifted closer to him, and Illya, almost unthinkingly, moved to wrap an arm around the American's shoulders. A bloodied hand slipped from beneath Napoleon's, the American's hand like ice against the hole in his stomach. Blood flowed out into the icy water, tendril of red on the inky blackness. Illya hissed at the pain it caused, even if it had become numbed by the cold. Napoleon shuddered, and leant his head on Illya's shoulder. They sat in silence, Napoleon shivering hard. Illya, himself, could distantly feel himself shaking, past the haze of cold and blood-loss. 

Illya remembered a time when he had spent the winter nights hungry, cold, and scared. His mother would bring men home. They lived with a horrid man. He was old, walked with a cane, used his mother as he wished. The cane had met Illya's flesh on more than one occasion, as has the man's hands. Illya didn't like to dwell on it. 

'Hey, Peril?' Illya looked up at the sound of Napoleon's voice, weak and shaky though it was. He made a grunt of acknowledgement, the muscles in his jaw tight from the cold. 'This must feel like home to you, huh?'

Illya stiffened. Napoleon had been trying to joke, but he had no idea how right he was. Illya's home for a lot of his life had been cold and harsh. Starvation, fear and hypothermia had been his best friends. They'd go weeks with little food, months without heating. No electricity, no coal or wood for a fire, no gas, no warm clothes. Just the threadbare jumper that had belonged to his father and a pair of gloves. 

'Peril?' Asked Napoleon, worry etched into every inflection in his voice, and Illya realised he'd said nothing in return.

'Sorry, Cowboy,' said Illya, quietly. He was finding it difficult to speak past the tense ache in his jaw. His lungs ached with every inhalation. His breath rattled in his chest, the air was cold and painful in his lungs. He could feel his airways tightening, closing, choking him. 

He knew Napoleon was finding it difficult too. His stint with the electric chair on their first mission had done his heart no favours. He was alright now, for the most part, even if he was prone to the occasional bout of chest pain. Illya worried for him.

Realising he was getting lost in his head more and more often, Illya shook himself. He remembered nights like this, and the best thing to do was to stay awake. So, head resting on top of Napoleon's, he urged the American to do just that. Napoleon raised an eyebrow at him.

'Best thing is to stay awake, Cowboy. So talk.'

Napoleon shifted in an attempt to get more comfortable. He fell silent for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. 'Um, okay. I have a sister, a younger one, and she can kick my ass six ways to Sunday,' Napoleon chuckled weakly, and Illya did too. 'There was this one time, when I was maybe eight, and I accidentally broke this doll she'd wanted, like, forever. God, she hit me so hard she knocked one of my teeth out. There was this other time, when she was ten...' 

Illya hadn't really wanted a life story, but Napoloen's voice was soothing. It calmed something inside him. Napoleon talked fondly about his life as a child, about his mother and his father. It seemed idyllic, and Illya squashed the feeling of jealousy and focused on the sound of Napoleon's voice. 

'You're still bleeding,' said Napoleon, almost out of nowhere. Illya shrugged. 

'Water,' he managed, 'stops blood from clotting. Cold is moving blood towards my heart.'

Napoleon nodded. There was a small silence, then, he sighed. 'We're gonna die here, aren't we?'

'Maybe,' said Illya. Napoleon sniffed quietly, and tucked his head further into Illya's shoulder. Illya held him tighter. 

Napoleon's breathing was getting quieter and quieter. His hand had slipped from Illya's stomach, and it lay in the Russian's lap where Illya now held it in his own, lax grip. Napoleon's eyes were slipping closed. Illya had neither the energy nor the coordination to shake him awake. Instead, he let himself drift into unconsciousness. The cold bled away, and so too did the feel of Napoleon pressed against him. 

Something entered his airways, and Illya startled awake, coughing. He must've fallen asleep, if only for a few minutes. The water rippled close to his chin, and Illya raised a shaky hand to slap Napoleon awake. The sky outside was grey and overcast. Illya could feel the snow that drifted from the sky as well as the ice that was beginning to form on the water's surface. The water was dangerously close to the American's mouth, and he showed no signs of waking by himself. 

Illya hooked a finger under his partner's chin, tilted his head back so that he wouldn't drown. 

Napoleon blinked awake at the movement, his eyes unfocused. Illya's hand moved to cup his cheek. Napoleon made a small sound of pain, and his eyes slipped closed again, if only for a few seconds.

'Come on, Cowboy,' said Illya, his hand now keeping Napoloen's head up. Napoleon watched him with tired eyes. He nodded, and Illya pulled his hand away. Napoleon made a small, quiet sound of loss, and his head fell to rest on the brick wall. 

'Cold,' he murmured. 'Hurts.'

Illya smiled sadly. 'I know, Cowboy.' He turned his gaze to the ladder above them. Napoleon looked up, then looked back to Illya. 

'How long?' Was all the American managed. Illya considered. The water was pouring in quite rapidly.

'Thirty minutes. Maybe less.'

Napoleon nodded. They fell into a silence broken only by the rushing of water. 

They were the longest thirty minutes of Illya's life. He held on to Napoleon for most of them. The ladder was icy and slippery. Illya helped his American partner up, shouldering the grate open with difficulty. It rattled as his muscles shook, and screeched open. It landed with a thunk in the snow. 

Illya pulled himself out, then reached back to help Napoleon. His hands were numb and clumsy, and he very nearly dropped Napoleon. His blood ran colder, for a second, until his second hand found Napoleon's jacket. Illya dug his knees into the snow, used the thin slab of concrete as leverage to haul his partner out.

Illya grunted, and Napoleon landed unceremoniously in the snow. The grate slammed shut behind them. Illya fell backwards, blood forming a pool of crimson around his body. They lay in the snow, freezing and weak. Minutes or hours passed.

'Peril,' said Napoleon, voice quiet and scared. A pause. Nothing. 'Illya?'

Met with nothing but silence, Napoleon reached his hand out. His shaking, numb fingers sought out Illya's own. Cold, white snow was all he could find. Something like panic rose in his chest. 'Illya?'

He could feel tears gathering in his eyes. Strength was leaving his body, the last of his energy seeping out into the cold ice below him. His eyes fell closed, and a tear slipped down his cheek. ' _Please_.'

Millimetres away, Illya's hand dripped red onto the snow.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Any and all comments are welcome and encouraged, and please drop me a kudos! I always try my best to reply to you all!
> 
> Lots of love!


End file.
